Trouble Shared
by A Benediction
Summary: Or: The Many Ways In Which John Watson Rescues Sherlock Holmes From His Own Idiocy.  As we join the boys, Sherlock has sustained an embarrassing injury which only John can treat. Things can only get worse - in a funny, hurt-comfort-sick-fic kind of way!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Round and Round the Table**

"JOHN! I need help!"

The wail coming from my friend was urgent enough to have me bounding down the stairs from my bedroom to the living room two at a time; instantly awake despite the illuminated display on my bedside alarm clock telling me it was 03:32. _I'm going to kill him if he wants me to fetch a pen._

Sherlock looked highly peculiar – even more so than normal – as I entered the living room. His usually sallow skin was flushed, and he was pacing around and around the coffee table - _like a teddy bear_ – my mind supplied, slightly giddy to see him not severely harmed.

He also appeared to be clutching at his buttocks, in a rather Billy Bunter-esque manner, as if trying to hold them on. Then I noticed the blood on his hands, and, for a moment, felt as if I had swallowed a quantity of cold, slimy pond water.

"Sherlock... _What happened_?"

He took in my paling expression and soft, croaky tones with a momentary look of puzzlement, which faded to irritation as quickly as could be expected from the World's First Consulting Detective.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, John, of _course_ I haven't been sexually assaulted. However, I have still had an outrage perpetrated upon my person, and I _really _cannot go to hospital about this – trust me."

He had not slowed his circling, and he was adding the odd funny little half-skip in between his words. The resemblance to a caned naughty schoolboy became even stronger. My stomach, which had soared with relief to realise I wasn't dealing with the type of assault that has always turned it, plummeted momentarily as I foolishly wondered if he was in to some kind of embarrassing kinkiness, then stabilised as I processed his exact words.

"So, what _have _you done to your arse?"

"Really, John, must you swear?" _Round and round_. Sherlock's modesty was a funny beast, choosing to materialise at the strangest times, and then disappearing totally at others. Some of the most foully creative invective I have ever heard, even in my time in the army, has spilled out of his mouth, yet sometimes he was as prudish as a nun, and the only way of dealing with him was to go with the current mood.

"So, what _have_ you done to your backside?"

I saw a strangely sheepish expression as he made the sou-westerly transect, but he did not reply until he was headed nor-easterly again, with his back to me.

"It was for a case."

"I gathered."

"You cannot tell _anyone_ about this. _Anyone_. Do you hear me?" His voice was growly as he continued his circumlocution, and I suddenly had to fight back a giggle.

"Allright. Not even Anderson. Now stop whirling around the table like a demented rabbit, and tell Doctor about this embarrassing injury."

He stopped, for a moment, although he substituted skipping from foot to foot for pacing.

"I wanted to check out Murtaza's place. I was right, he has been processing stolen artwork; he's storing it underneath his wine cellar. A little anonymous tip off to the police, and I should think he's in custody by now."

"And this explains these new dance moves how?"

"I can't go to hospital. I _may_ have had to have indulged in a little breaking and entering to get the information I need, and it would probably invalidate the case if it got out. Plus I just _couldn't_..."

I paused for a moment, but still couldn't put it all together. "Nope, sorry. Understand you've been a reckless tool again, but still don't understand the dance moves."

"I made a mistake". Through gritted teeth.

"Pardon? I thought I just heard you suggest you made a mistake, but I must have got that wrong."

"Piss off, John! This isn't funny. OK, I assumed that Murtaza's ludicrous social climbing routine was to gain him access to the properties the artwork was stolen from, so he could preselect the most valuable and moveable items. Turned out it's probably genuine. The man keeps _pheasants_ for God's sake. And I deduced they've been having poachers, because why else would they station a gamekeeper in the woods all primed to pepper rapidly fleeing suspicious looking characters with game shot?"

This last was gabbled out very quickly, with the air of somebody getting an unpleasant task over with, and, as he finished the sentence, Sherlock dropped his trousers with one fluid motion, and presented his naked backside to me.

I was stuck between laughing and wincing at the sight of the myriad small bleeding pockmarks with the floridly technicoloured skin in between. In the end, I tried to put on my professional voice, slightly failing, as it quavered noticeably even to me.

"Ah. I see. Poacher's Bottom. Just like in _Danny, Champion of the World_."

"_It's not funny, John!_"

"No, no, not at all, of course. Right, trousers and pants off, take this jumper, but pull it up away from your ars… _backside_, and lie face down on the sofa. Probably easier if your middle's over the arm, and your legs rest on the footstool, so the – er – affected part is raised. You can watch the telly, take your mind off it. You'll need to". Sherlock obeyed, although his movements were slow and reluctant. I wondered vaguely how he'd even got home from the edge of Oxfordshire, but didn't ask.

"Good, Sherlock." I then poured him a large glass of Glenmorangie. "Down in one, it'll help. Excellent. Right, I'll just fetch some boiling water, towels, TCP and the potato peeler."

My patient bolted upright on his arms, folding in half like some bizarre lizard.

"_POTATO PEELER?"_

-oOo-

_Oops! Poor Sherlock. Let's hope things –um – bottom out OK. Good job he has John to watch his rear. Next chapter, will Sherlock find life is even more of a pain in the arse?_

_Oh, God, sorry! I sound like Austin Powers._

_Right, next is Chapter 2: Potato Peeler!_

_Please read and review if you want to see more of this story!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

**Potato Peeler**

Sherlock was usually the stoical type. He viewed physical pain as a nuisance to be ignored, and normally successfully managed exactly that. I had also been surprised in the past by how polite he had been towards hospital staff when he had been admitted. Apparently, doctors, nurses, physios, cleaners and ward clerks were exempt from his usually scathing criticisms when they happened to be caring for him.

The Potato Peeler Incident was the exception to the rule. I had followed the liberal application of alcohol with a large dose of Cocodamol (something the textbooks would caution about, but I knew better). The resulting disinhibition, and the obvious niggling painfulness of the procedure, served to loosen Sherlock's tongue, and he cursed imaginatively and wailed vocally throughout.

I had silenced the initial incendiary reaction to the idea of digging the shotgun pellets out with a potato peeler by pointing out that it was a tool ideally shaped for the purpose; the end being designed to dig out eyes in the potato. This had necessitated Sherlock confessing exactly what he may had done to the kitchen implements that made him nervous of putting them to this use.

I bit back my indignation that I was daily at risk of poisoning in my own kitchen, knowing it to not be strictly true – Sherlock was always careful not to leave anything in _too_ dangerous a state – he was a good and methodical scientist – but apparently he finally understood my own squeamishness regarding eating utensils being put to grim purposes, never mind how thoroughly they were cleaned afterwards.

It was a shame I didn't have any local anaesthetic in the flat. Lignocaine was far more difficult to nick these days, and I had used up my last stash to stitch up his knee after he had attempted to chase down a fleeing fraud suspect in the recent icy weather. Attempting to procure more would leave Sherlock in this undignified and painful position for at least an hour. Better to get it over with the old fashioned way.

I boiled the potato peeler on the hob for five minutes, then for three more with vinegar added. I did have dressing packs and sterile sachets galore (much easier to pinch than drugs), and I set up my little operating table carefully, next to Sherlock in his ridiculous pose.

The first inkling I had that this was not going to be straightforward was when I applied the Chlorhexadine antiseptic solution to the poor battered skin. Sherlock squawked like a schoolgirl and almost fell off the sofa.

"Come on, don't be such a baby!" I chided, knowing that kind words would be nowhere near as effective in calming him.

"Ow! OW! _You_ try it!" he snarled, turning to glare at my furiously.

"Shall we just take you to hospital after all? Or shall I go to Barts A&E and try to nick some Lignocaine? Only, I'll have to leave you…"

"Oh, alright. Get on with it. Your bedside manner today's atrocious."

Grinning, I finished the job of cleaning as well as I was able, and my friend kept the commentary down to the occasional moan.

"Right. I've cleaned everything up. Now I need to do the painful part, I'm afraid."

"Oh, _Go—oo-d_" groaned Sherlock, drawing the syllable out, and burying his face in the sofa.

He let out a whimper as I dug out the first pellet and dropped it in a bowl, then a load moan at the second, and a cry at the third.

From then on, I had to listen to a litany of obscenities: _"Oh, God, John, F***, it's too much, wait a minute, wait a minute, JOHN! Hold on…no you imbecile, don't listen to me, get on with it -don't just stop!"_ being some of the mildest. An impressive collection of hollow moans and guttural groans interspersed the speech. Anyone would have thought he was dying. The most striking of all was the high-pitched shriek when I mopped up the blood with a sachet of sterile water.

"Watch it! That's wet! Think of the mess you're making on the sofa!"

"No, I'm not. And since when have you ever cared about mess? You're just looking for extra things to grumble about - or squeal like a girl about, more like. Bad idea, when I'm the one with the potato peeler!"

I felt more sorry for him towards the end, as it obviously was very sore, and the repetitive nature of it must have been toe-curling. I definitely heard the odd little telling catch of breath, and saw him surreptitiously swiping at his eyes.

"You'll have some interesting scars. Quite the constellation you've got, really. D'you think I can see the sun shining from here?" The best way to buoy Sherlock was a little gentle abuse. It appealed to his competitive nature to find a witty retort.

"Oh, shut up." Hm. Not his best effort.

Finally, I placed the last pellet (there had been thirty-two of them, all told) in the basin.

"I'm just going rub this cream over your arse now. Sorry, I know that must have been painful, but I bet you feel much better." I helped him scoot into a more natural position and draped a clean dressing towel, then a cotton one, over him to restore his modesty a bit.

"I won't be able to sit down for a week" he moaned, breathlessly.

It was then that I heard it. The tell-tale creak of floorboards outside the door, and the stealthy step descending the stairs. I froze, as did Sherlock, and we looked at each other as the realisation that our landlady must have been eavesdropping on proceedings dawned on both of us. I could see Sherlock playing parts of the soundtrack to our activities back in his head; I was doing exactly the same, after all. As we looked into each other's eyes (Sherlock's still red-rimmed) in comic horror, I noticed Sherlock start to quiver, then he let out a helpless wail of laughter.

I joined him in his hysterics, both whooping and holding onto each other, tears of uncontrollable mirth rolling down our cheeks.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" wheezed Sherlock when he could next speak. "She'll be on the phone to Mrs Turner already, telling her she'd known about us all along!"

I dissolved into another helpless fit of giggles at the thought, then froze again as a new thought struck me.

"_Sherlock!_ What the hell is she going to make of the potato peeler?"

-oOo-

_It's lovely to write something light and silly for a change, although this story may well meander into darkness at some point! _

_Next, what happens when you combine a consulting detective with a mouse trap?_

_Please do read and review, and make this author very happy indeed!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter ****3:**

**Like a Rat in a Trap**

Sherlock was walking quickly, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his British Gas anorak, a seraphic expression on his face. John, similarly attired, had to trot slightly to keep up with the taller man's stride.

"It _was_ murder, John. Not misadventure."

"The police don't think so."

"Police! Hah!" The smile morphed into a disdainful scowl, and John had to master his urge to snigger at Sherlock's indignation.

"Why did you even get involved? Bit mundane for you, isn't it? Bloke falls off his ladder doing the guttering?"

"The widow. I've had an eye on her for some time. I was involved in investigating the death of her last husband. Ironically enough, that was almost certainly death by natural causes. Unlike, in all probability, the previous four."

"Phew. You'd think they'd get a bit wary, wouldn't you?"

"I've said before that love saps away any of the meagre supply of rationality the average person may be said to possess."

"Yes. Yes, you have".

"Although, to be fair, I think lust was probably more of motivator. All her husbands have been considerably older than her, and not sufficiently wealthy to routinely command the attention of such silicon-supplemented artistry as Mrs Bowers-_nee_-Grant-_nee_-Doherty-_nee_-Jones-_nee_-Rogers-_nee_-Mellor-_nee-_Mills."

"Did you practice that?"

Sherlock threw a sidelong, shifty look at John, then giggled. "Yes. Trips off the Tongue, doesn't it?"

"So why did she marry them if they weren't wealthy? Insurance?"

"Precisely - and a certain stubborn yet gullible quality, plus a predilection towards hobbies that were outwardly ordinary yet had the potential for disaster. I spoke to the late Mr Bowers before he took the plunge - the first plunge, not the final - tried to warn him what he was getting himself into, and he wasn't particular receptive. Amazing how effective a weapon a simple garden rake can be. Gardening and DIY were his favourite pastimes. She's a wealthy woman by now, Mrs Bowers. Could have easily afforded to pay someone to do the guttering, but he loved the chance to be handy."

"But how could she guarantee he would have an accident? Seems a bit of a long shot, and she was having a cup of tea with the old lady who lives next door at the time."

"The ladder was too short. He'd have to balance precariously on the top rung. Wouldn't be too difficult to make him lose his footing. Perhaps a little bit of oil rubbed into the wood to just to make it that bit more slippery."

"It 's not exactly foolproof, though, is it? What if he'd secured himself or something?"

"John. He was willing to walk straight into a marriage with a woman who'd had four previous husbands die a sudden and unexpected death, plus he was a pigheaded vain middle aged Tory voter. Do you really think he was the type to adhere to a sensible health and safety policy?"

"Still. And what about her alibi? She certainly wasn't out shoving him off his ladder when she was gossiping with Mrs Jam and Jerusalem next door."

"She phoned Mrs... _Jam and Jerusalem?_"

"Never mind. I suppose the Women's Institute is a bit like the solar system. Or not - I realised months afterwards that you must have been winding me up about that - anyone with your knowledge of ballistics couldn't really have lost out on Newton's Law and centripetal forces. Shot yourself in the foot there, didn't you?"

Sherlock grinned. "Actually, I do know about the W.I. You'd be amazed at the depths petty rivalries will drive women to. Sometime, I must tell you about Mrs Fortmason and the Lemon Curd of Doom, as I expect you'd call it... but we digress, John! As I was saying, Mrs Bowers phoned Mrs Jam and Jerusalem on a rather thin pretext, and invited her over for tea out of the blue, never really having spoken to her before. Rather convenient, wouldn't you say?"

"OK, yes. What else?"

"Mrs J and J is the epitome of middle class respectability, and has the added advantage of severe osteoarthritis. When Bowers fell, Mrs Bowers was able to be at his side whilst her guest was still struggling to get out of her chair."

"What, so you think maybe she bashed his head in after he fell?"

"Oh no, he broke his neck in the fall. However, had he failed to do so, I'm sure that ugly stone copy of Venus de Milo - which, incidentally, had been moved from the bottom of the garden to closer to hand - would have done the trick."

"God, it's enough to make you want to stay single, isn't it?"

"I've rarely needed much persuading. Did you notice there were several impressions in the ground from the feet of the ladder?"

"Yes. Presumably where Mr Bowers had moved the ladder along to do the guttering."

"So I'm sure you noticed the deeper impressions, obviously made the night before the others at around 2am when the ground was still damp after the rain, that had been partially scuffed over by a woman's size 5 trainer, the tread of which matched those we saw in the rack when we went to read Mrs Bowers' gas meter?"

"Er..."

"Good, I'm glad you're keeping up. Did you see the cat?"

"Cat. Oh, yes, it had it's leg in a cast."

"Oh, you did notice that." He looked marginally deflated.

"Yes, I tend to notice injuries, even on an animal. I take it it's relevant?"

"I strongly suspect so. In fact, I wondered if we might see something of the sort after we viewed the body."

John accepted this with a nod. "And why were we looking in the shed?"

"Just looking for the icing on the cake. Found it, by the way, but I'll need to give a little demonstration to Lestrade to convince him to get a warrant." Sherlock's eyes were glowing with the expression John recognised as anticipation of being able to give a dramatic performance. "Send him a text would you - _meet me at Barts' morgue at 1400. Murder. Case solved. SH. _That should bring him. We should have time for a spot of lunch, then we can take a cab."

Sherlock was at his most ebullient over lunch, even deigning to eat; a sure sign he considered the case complete. John veered between fond amusement and irritation. He was, of course, curious about the conclusion of the case, but there was never much chance of prizing the truth out of his flatmate before he was ready.

Sherlock directed the cab on a most peculiar route, calling for the cabbie to stop in a dingy side street whilst he darted into a very dubious looking hardware shop, and coming back out with a package in a brown paper bag.

They arrived at the morgue at quarter to two, and Sherlock darted into Molly's office, wheedling her to get Bowers out ready for him. While she scurried to obey, he snuck back into the office, and John heard him moving furniture about. He sidled out nonchalantly, waiting for Lestrade to arrive.

Lestrade was ten minutes late, to Sherlock's obvious irritation, and came with Sally Donovan.

"Alright, Freako, what have you got for us?" piped up Sally, cheerfully. She and Sherlock had reached an almost friendly impasse, but an acute sense of rivalry remained, and John knew his friend would relish the opportunity to point-score over her.

"Just a murder your colleagues in the Met missed", drawled Sherlock casually.

"Oh, yeah, I heard about this one. Bloke who fell off his own ladder, having announced in front of his very respectable neighbour that he was off to do the guttering. You must be desperate." However, her eyes glittered with interest, as did Lestrade's.

"Come and take a look at the body. Molly, can you tell us about the autopsy report please?" Sherlock was nicer to Molly in recent days, since she had become more assertive, and John had started to notice the slight attention seeking behaviour Sherlock employed when he wanted to impress someone, being directed in the bright young pathologist's direction.

"Well, he wasn't one of mine, but Dr Antill has written it up. Cause of death, dislocated fracture of the cervical vertebrae at the atlanto-axial junction, consistent with a fall from a height. Also fractured his right clavicle and sustained a large haematoma to the right hip, presumably in the same fall. Otherwise not much else to find. Numerous small abrasions to hands, in various stages of healing - DIY enthusiast - including horizontal bruising across right second to fourth fingers, along the distal interphalangeal joints... oh, that's a bit weird..." she broke off, holding up the corpse's right hand. "Look how the nail beds are dented, yet there's not much bruising. I'd have thought this happened at the time of death. Funny sort of injury to have sustained in a fall."

"Well _done, _Molly! You've hit on the crucial piece of evidence I tried to draw Inspector Manning's attention to, but he was rather disinterested." Molly looked pinkly pleased, and Lestrade sceptical.

"So he trapped his fingers in something? Hardly seems a case for murder, Sherlock.". This was all part of the game. Lestrade was nothing if not astute, and he usually humoured the consulting detective during his fits of showboating, speaking the lines of the irrevocably dense plod.

Sherlock's eyes were shining, and he rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Follow me."

He led the way into Molly's office. A lab stool stood next to the wall. He drew a pair of suede gardening gloves out of the paper bag from the hardware shop with a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit from the hat. He then toed his shoes off and climbed up onto the lab stool.

"So Bowers is balanced precariously on top of his too-short ladder, like so. He wanted to get to the down-pipe, but he can't get the ladder directly underneath it, as the base has a concrete box around it, and there's a flower bed, planted by his wife, I would imagine, around that.

"He's therefore leaning off balance, groping above his head at full stretch into the guttering..." he demonstrated this, reaching towards the water pipes that ran along the ceiling...

There was a sharp _snap!_ and Sherlock fell off the stool with a distinctly unmanly shriek, which Molly promptly echoed in startlement.

He continued squawking after he hit the ground, then attempted to leap to his feet wailing "Agh! AAAGH! GET IT OFF! JOHN, GET IT OFF ME!".

He was flailing his arm around, and John noticed what appeared to be a giant mouse-trap clamped onto his fingers. Lestrade and John both leapt forward, and Lestrade held the arm still while John inserted his closed penknife flat side down into the gap between bar and fingers, and rotated it so the bar lifted - it took a lot of force - and Sherlock was able to pull his fingers free. He collapsed against the wall, whimpering, clutching his hand protectively to his chest, moaning, sweating and swearing.

"It hurts! JOHN! IT HURTS!"

"Of course it bloody hurts, you great idiot! It's designed to break rats' spines. What did you expect?"

"For it to hurt a bit! Not this much! Owwwww!"

John went to coax the glove off Sherlock's hand. There was a deep depression in the fabric, and blood had already stained through it. He keened as the doctor drew it off, revealing badly crushed fingers, the nails lifting off two of them, and one clearly broken. They were already purple and swollen to twice their normal size.

Molly and Sally had been making accompanying noises of sympathetic shock throughout, Sally's admirably contrived, and now Molly swung into action.

"Here, Sherlock, run your fingers under the cold tap." He was standing right by the sink, and before John had time to protest, she had dragged his hand underneath, and turned the tap on full. The water gushed out under typical NHS excessive pressure, causing Sherlock's squawks to redouble at the further assault to the tender flesh.

"IDIOT!" he roared at her, causing her to retort:

"_I'm _an idiot? I'm not the one who deliberately shoved his fingers into a rat trap to prove a point!"

"I didn't expect it to cause so much damage - Bowers isn't badly bruised!"

"Well, he died before he had much time to, didn't he? Come on, Sherlock, you're the one who's supposed to know about post mortem bruising! Plus look at his fat, callused, DIY fingers, not like your spindly spidery ones."

Sherlock stared fixedly ahead for a moment. He then announced:

"Bowers' gloves showed similar marks to mine. Although with much less blood."

He then abruptly turned and was violently sick in the sink. John buried his exasperation, and went to put an arm around his friend's heaving shoulders.

"Molly, could you fetch some ice, please, and a clean towel, and a glass of water?" Molly bustled off, while Sherlock spat miserably into the sink.

"I'll get the water", volunteered Sally hastily, taking the opportunity to leave the room. She probably thought she was being discreet, but her peals of laughter were just audible as her footsteps receded down the corridor. John felt the stiffening of the shoulders under his hold, and saw the wobbling lip rapidly stilled. He was torn between his own urge to laugh, and being sorry for the massive dent his friend's ego and fingers had been dealt.

When Molly returned with the towel and ice, John wrapped the ice in the towel and gently bound it round the damaged fingers as Sherlock drew in his breath through his teeth and tried not to hyperventilate.

"I think I've broken my big toe, too, falling off the stool. It caught under me." He glared at Molly. "I can't believe I took my shoes off just to protect your bloody furniture - my toe would've been fine if I'd kept them on.". Molly clearly wasn't sure how to respond to this, and was fighting back her own attack of the giggles. John politely yet firmly asked for another towel and more ice. Lestrade, behaving rather more more helpfully, brought two chairs through, ushering Sherlock into the first, and putting the other in place for him to rest his foot on.

John cut off his sock with the scissors from his penknife, and confirmed that the big toe was indeed broken and purple.

"We'll need to get you to A&E - you could do with a regional anaesthetic block and some stitches. It'll just be strapping and analgesia for the rest, and probably some antibiotics, as God knows where that barbaric thing's been - and it's almost cut through to the bone. I'm sure they'll let me sneak in and do it all - I've done them enough favours with locum work. I suppose you'll want to amaze us all with the murder details first?"

It was a rather subdued, anticlimactic denouement in the end. Sherlock explained about the ladder, the indentations, the trainers, the alibi, the Venus de Milo back-up club. How he had "seen" Mrs Bowers' email account, and noted that she had brought the same model of rat trap he had purchased from the dodgy hardware shop, and must have placed it in the guttering the night before. How she must have snatched the trap up and concealed it as Mrs Jam and Jerusalem made her slow way outside. How he found the trap sitting on the shelf in the shed.

"Shouldn't stand up to a proper police investigation, but she'd have been fine if nobody had looked too closely. There's bound to be traces on the trap, and hopefully prints. Check for cat blood too, and the vet records - she tried it out on her poor cat first.

"Awwww!" cried Molly, appalled, clearly much more upset by the cat's injuries than Sherlock's.

By now, the detective was looking particularly pathetic, clutching his wrist to his chest, and Molly's attitude seemed to complete the process of crushing him. Lestrade and Donovan left to see to Mrs Bowers. John helped Sherlock hobble to A&E, where he patched up the injuries, then bundled the woebegone figure into a taxi and home.

The detective grumbled and moaned as he limped up the stairs, then gingerly lowered himself on to the sofa. John went to make tea. When he carried two steaming mugs back through, Sherlock was making some strange, sniffing sounds. Glancing down, John saw he had turned his face to the sofa, and was surreptitiously swatting at his eyes with his cuff. Plainly, the embarrassment had hurt, as, of course, had the pain. Despite his pronounced disdain for other people in general, John knew Sherlock burned for approval, and in front of four of the people in the world he most liked to impress, he had nosedived in spectacular style, literally and figuratively.

"You know", said John, kindly, "they may have thought it was funny - and that's only because you weren't too badly hurt, mind - but they'll all still think it was brilliant."

Sherlock sniffed a little more, and, when John draped an arm around his shoulders again, buried his face into the doctor's shoulder. John soothingly stroked his hair, and they stayed like that for a while.

"Thanks, John".

"You're welcome".

A pause.

"I _was_ a bit of an idiot, wasn't I?"

"Absolutely."

"Got a bit carried away. Should have thought things through."

"I think that's fair."

"I suppose there _was _a funny side to it."

"Yes, yes, I can see why some people might think so."

"Thanks for not laughing at the time. I think I had a bit of a sense of humour failure."

"That would be the crushed fingers and broken toe - tends to have that effect." _Not to mention having the haughty disposition of a wronged Siamese cat_, he thought privately, rather pleased with his almost poetic metaphor. Then he wondered if Sherlock had read his (too readable) face and deduced his internal monologue. He regarded his friend slightly warily.

"Mm." was the only response.

Another long pause, then Sherlock gave a snort.

Then started to giggle.

Tentatively, John joined in, which made his flatmate laugh harder, which set John off further. Before too long, they were clinging to each other, completely hysterical.

"None of you lot are ever going to let me live this down, are you?" wheezed Sherlock, eventually.

"Nope. But on the plus side, you have plenty of time to compose the appropriate biting retorts."

Suddenly happy, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, grinning. Before John, he'd never have coped with this sort of humiliation; now, he had just proven he could laugh it off. A whole new talent; remarkable. One that might considerably improve his life. Not to mention John would probably pamper him, what with his poor broken toe and fingers and all.

Perhaps he should be an idiot more often.

-oOo-

_I do love being mean to Sherlock – if only to make it all better again! Bit of light relief for me from The Hay Wain, but I'm cracking on with that nicely too, if anyone was wondering… that should have a new chapter up soon._

_ A little review please?_

_ Also, if any of you have any ludicrous-injury scenarios you'd like writing, let me know! I have one or two up my sleeve already, but would love to do requests…._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

**One Smoking Barrel **

"Seriously, Sherlock, put my bloody gun down! Mrs Hudson'll flip if you put any more holes in her wall!"

I glared at my obstreperous flat mate, who was flouncing around the living room in his pyjamas and dressing gown, in the throes of acute ennui, but glaring doesn't really work with Sherlock. He became, if possible, more badly behaved, and danced out of my way still holding the gun.

"I'm BORED, John!"

"Well, _do_ something then. There's a whole world of scientific mysteries unsolved out there - boredom is for the feeble-minded."

He stared at me as if I'd just hit him. Hard. Then his face scrunched into a dark glower, he spun on his heel, and fired a shot into the wall. Without thinking, I lunged at him to confiscate the dangerous weapon he was currently brandishing like a toy, and he scowled at me, turning and tucking it into the front of his waistband.

There was a deafening bang, and a strangled yell.

The gun clattered to the floor, sliding out through the leg of his pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock fell to his knees, his face a terrible grey colour. I thudded to my knees next to him, my mind reeling with horror.

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, where did it hit you?"

He suddenly leapt to his feet, and, making a desperate keening sound, bolted for the bathroom, leaving me somewhere between perplexed, relieved and concerned. My mind then processed the visual of the last few seconds. The flying splinters as the bullet crashed into the floorboards two feet in front of Sherlock. The angle was all wrong to have hit him.

Suddenly, I knew what must have happened, and I was torn between an urge to laugh, and eye-watering sympathy.

I followed him to the bathroom. The sound of running water and miserable whimpers seemed to confirm my deduction.

"Sherlock?"

"Go away!" His voice had risen to a high, undignified squeak.

"Sherlock. Did you burn your knob on the barrel of the gun?"

There was a long silence. Then a little, thready "yes."

"Do you want me to take a look?"

"NO!"

God, he could be such a prude.

"Don't you think it would be sensible for me to take a look? I'll take the cold running water into account."

A longer silence, then a small, subdued "Come in."

Sherlock was sitting on the end of the bath with his pyjama trousers around his ankles, holding the shower head to his groin, and looking absolutely woebegone. I honestly don't know how I managed to keep a straight face; I had to reach deep inside myself to find a reserve of medical professionalism.

"Right, let's take a look then." I kept my voice brisk and light. Sherlock lifted the shower head away, and moved his drooping penis to the side, showing me the long angry red stripe along its edge and running down his right testicle. Some of the skin was beginning to blister already. It looked quite nasty.

I'm afraid that at this point, I winced, which didn't go down too well. We got actual chin-quivering, and I had to quickly back-pedal to draw him back from the edge of panic. It seems even a man who views his body as just transport has a soft spot for his... well, soft spots.

"It'll be OK, mate. It's pretty superficial; it'll hurt like buggery for a couple of days, but it'll heal."

"Are you sure?"

"If you look after it properly, which I can help you with, it should be fine."

"Will I still be able to have children?"

"_What_? Were you considering it?" Again, a lapse in my professional standards, but this was Sherlock we were talking about, and it seemed an extraordinary question for a man who usually refers to children as "spawn".

"No need to sound so alarmed, John. And no, I'm definitely not considering it, but it's not the same as not being able to."

"Fine, fine. And yes, you should, theoretically, still be able to sprog up, but I really, _really_ have to ask that you don't consider it for the time being."

He looked relieved, then his knees started jigging up and down, and the grey lack of colour returned to his face.

"It _really_ hurts when I take the water off it, John."

"You poor bastard. Keep the water on it, I'll go and grab some burn stuff and dress it for you.

When I got back, Sherlock was looking worried again - I mean, worried on top of the basal level of a man who has just scorched his genitals.

"Will it scar, John?"

"Hopefully not."

"It's just... doesn't scar tissue not stretch very well?" He was blushing. Sherlock Holmes was bluching. I may not have bought into snide comments about Sherlock's level of sexual experience by those who should have known better, but it was obvious he had issues about discussing it: the blunt approach was best.

"You should still be able to get it up."

"Well, that's... good." Still hesitant.

"I don't think there'll be anything that'll look too off-putting either."

The sigh of relief reinforced some surmises I had already been making.

"I thought you were married to your work?"

"John!"

"Sorry, sorry, none of my business."

At that moment, we exchanged this version of excruciating embarrassment for another. Inspector Lestrade burst into the room.

"Are you two OK? Mrs Hudson heard... _Oh Jesus_!"

As he turned to back out of the room, it registered with me that he had been holding his mobile to his ear, presumably to summon help should he need it. I could hear him standing down whoever it was on the other end - I hated to think what gossip was going to follow on from there. Sherlock's face was flaming.

I poked my head out of the door and reluctantly met the Inspector's eye.

"Guess who thought shooting patterns in the wall then sticking the barrel into his waistband to stop his friend confiscating it would be a good idea? I only speak theoretically, of course, because we don't have a gun here, obviously."

Lestrade looked as if Christmas had come early.

"He's burned his meat and two veg?"

"_John!_" The indignant squawk from the bathroom drew my attention back to my patient.

"Why did you have to tell him anything?" he hissed, furiously.

"Would you prefer him to draw his own conclusions?" The detective lapsed into sulky silence. Lestrade gestured vaguely at the sofa and the kitchen, and mimed the universal sign for drink. I nodded and made a "T" with my hands, thumbing between myself and Sherlock, then closed the door behind me again and rooted through the rather extensive first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet.

"Right, Flamazine", I announced breezily, as I opened the little tube. "Good stuff, this. Developed during the Falklands War."

"Silver sulfadiazine in a water soluble emollient base; prevents the growth of yeasts and bacteria by disruption of the cell wall", muttered Sherlock, the bloody know it all.

"More importantly, it's nice and soothing." I held the packet of sterile gloves aloft. "Do you want to put it on yourself?"

Sherlock looked down at himself, shuddered, and looked ready to faint again. He quickly looked away, staring at the bottle of poncey shampoo at the far corner of the bath.

"Shall I do it for you?"

He hunched into himself, appearing to be trying to shrink, then gave the tiniest and curtest of nods.

I receded back into the cheerful professional again.

"Right, then. Pop this leg up here, this one here. Just a bit of sterile gauze to dry it off now a bit. Just getting the sterile gloves on. I'll need to move things a bit down here. Cold now. I'm just going to smooth it on so it properly covers the damage."

I managed to keep up my inanely sensible patter even when I realised that the set of Sherlock's shoulders wasn't the only part of him stiffening. His averted face was a study in mortification, and I wasn't about to make it any worse. I finished by applying a suitable dressing, then stood up, wincing as my knees cracked. Oh god. There were tears in his eyes. Perhaps I should have mentioned the perfectly natural response to having a person messing around down there, rather than tactfully ignoring it.

Instinct made the decision for me. I threw my arms around him, and drew him into a bear hug, slapping his back in a matey fashion.

"All done! Who's my brave little soldier, then?"

His face was a picture as it tried to adjust from utter shame and despondency to indignation, surprise, amusement, contempt, gratitude - his poor old _frontalis, levator labii_ and their friends didn't know what to do with themselves.

"I'll go and grab you some fresh pyjamas. Take these - it's Paracetamol and Diclofenac." I slipped out of the room to allow him to compose himself. When I returned with the lightest cotton garment I could find, Sherlock was standing with a towel around his waist, held well away from his groin, and he looked more himself, albeit still a little sheepish.

"Better?"

"Much, thank you."

"Good. That's good. I'll leave you to put these on then." I turned to leave.

"John!"

I turned back.

"Yes?"

"You really are an excellent doctor."

"Thanks. And you really are an idiot, but an excellent detective just the same."

"Guilty as charged. On this occasion."

I rolled my eyes and turned to go again.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock."

"You're an even better friend."

He grinned at me then, and I returned it, touched.

"Thanks."

"Do you think you could get rid of Lestrade?"

"I doubt it."

I was finally allowing myself the tiniest fraction of the giggling fit I deserved as I entered the living room and took the cup of tea Lestrade, comfortably ensconced on the sofa, held out to me. I hurriedly stopped laughing.

"You saw none of this, of course."

"Of course."

Sherlock then shuffled gingerly into the room, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, and sat down very carefully.

"Alright, out with it. So what are your conditions, Lestrade?"

"Huh?"

"You were on your way round here already, or you couldn't have got here so quickly when Mrs Hudson called you. And you only come over directly if you think you need to persuade me to become involved and there's no emergency. So what is it?"

"The Lansley case."

"Oh, come _on_! It's utterly dull! You know I'm not interested in that sort of thing!"

"I know. I was going to ask as a favour..."

"Oh, god. And now it's your _condition_. Blackmail doesn't suit you, Detective Inspector."

"I wouldn't call it blackmail, precisely. But it is going to be difficult, you know, remembering not to mention certain things... D'you know, I'm not sure if this case will be reminder enough. How about you be civil to Sally for the next three months?"

"_Three m..._ Oh! Allright. There actually _is _something interesting about this case, isn't there?"

"There's a lighthouse and a trained seagull involved."

Sherlock immediately looked radiant. I smiled to myself, then turned to Lestrade, just in case.

"Well, I'm glad you've got something for him to do - although I'd advise against anything too strenuous. Oh, and Greg, just in case your memory needs any assistance - I also find it slightly difficult to remember not to mention certain consultations myself, especially if they're on an unofficial basis, like, you know, _down the pub_, but I manage. I'm sure you will too, won't you?"

Lestrade shot me the grin of a man who knows he's over a barrel but has decided to be good natured about it.

"I'll be the proverbial elephant, John."

Sherlock beamed again.

"Can I just mention that you're occasionally marvellous, John? It more than compensates for all the times when you're mediocre."

I sighed. No complement from Sherlock could stay unadulterated for long. I turned to Lestrade.

"OK then. This cock and bal... bull story. Let's hear it."

-oOo-

_I find it very difficult to make time for writing these days, which is why you can see everything has stalled. I keep coming back to them all. I was grinning to myself all over when writing this one._

_ I have another nearly finished chapter for this, that is quite a lot darker. I'd be delighted for further suggestions to keep me going._

_ Thanks so much to all of you who read and reviewed! Always makes my day._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Cold Comfort**

The front door banged open as I carried my plate through to the living room, and Sherlock strode in with a flourish. It was an ability I envied; doing perfectly ordinary things like walking through doors with a flourish, one that Sherlock pulled off effortlessly.

"Hello", I greeted him calmly, as I couldn't always be pandering to his ego with exclamations of surprise. I then looked at him more closely. "Why are you so dusty? You have cobwebs in your hair. And - ugh, Sherlock, you actually smell horrible - like you've been left at the bottom of a damp PE bag for a week."

"Thanks", he said, making for the sofa. I leapt to my feet to pre-empt him, hurriedly putting my ginger snaps out of reach.

"No you don't! Change first!"

I went to push him in the small of his back towards the bathroom, which was when I noticed he was damp as well as dusty, and absolutely freezing. From the brief contact, I could feel him shivering.

"Seriously, Sherlock, what have you been doing? You're heading towards hypothermia!" I grabbed his hands (blocks of ice) and pressed the back of my hand to his right cheek (cold and clammy) as I spoke, feeling his teeth chattering as I did so.

"I've been in the air conditioning system at Darkwood Warehouse."

"Why?" I asked, as I hustled him in into the bathroom and started the bath running. He sat on the toilet seat and treated me to one of his light speed, blink-and-you-miss-the-punchline style speeches.

"I told you there was something a bit odd about those 'canaries'. The beak was all wrong for a seed-eater. They were small Galapagos finches; insect feeders. They dyed their feathers to conceal them; they're very valuable. Lewis was a fence for an illegal exotic animal smuggling ring, that's why Trafford was killed. I guessed there was something odd going on when I noticed the yellow pigment under his finger nails. He worked originally with a major chemical company developing dyes for food; non-toxic, permanent. There was a tiny feather caught up in his cuff button hole, yet Lewis said he didn't work in the shop. He left a well paid job, yet had erratic but large deposits paid into his bank account - online banking, left his emails logged in and emailed his own details to himself to help him remember his username and password, not the careful type. I checked his car too, parking tickets for the NCP just down the road from Darkwood. I checked all possible premises in the area, only Darkwood seemed blandly unsuspicious enough to be suspicious. Bit difficult to get in, but there was an ancient air vent. Bit cold and musty in there, obviously not serviced for years, but they've started running it again recently; why? Because they have deliveries of animals in there that require a narrow range of ambient temperature. Unfortunately, this week it was snowy owls; very popular apparently, but not the most comfortable setting for me - waited for hours for them to turn up, but they did in the end. Called the police, but had to wait until they'd gone, as strictly speaking I shouldn't have been in there."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Brilliant and all, but idiotic as well." My flatmate was now shivering so hard he looked as if he was in soft focus. "Why, on this one occasion, did you not have the bat-cape?"

"If you mean my coat, it's at the cleaners. As is your best suit."

"What? Why? What did you do?"

"Unimportant. I'm fixing it", he said, evasively. I sighed, then recollected that he was beginning to turn blue.

"Right, clothes off."

"Thought you'd never ask."

"Less smart arse, more stripping."

He smirked at me, standing and moving his hands to the buttons on the jacket. I turned away, arms folded, with a scowl. I wasn't about to let him get distracted and just rinse off under the shower; I was making sure he raised his core temperature. He was taking ages. I heard a little huff of frustration, and turned to see him still struggling with the second button.

"Er, John."

"Oh, for... your poor hands. It's not good you know, getting so cold you can't manage your own buttons properly. You could have got frostbite."

"Rubbish."

"Doctor, remember", I muttered, starting to undo his jacket and shirt for him.

"So you should know better."

I stripped his top half off, moved on to his shoes and socks, and make quick work of his belt and flies.

"Right, you can take it from here."

"Aren't you going to leave? Nazi interrogation technique, watching people undress, you know."

"I'm not watching. I'm hovering and supervising, there's a difference."

"You just can't resist my musk."

I grabbed the damp hand towel from the rail and thwacked him hard across his naked bum with it.

"Get in the bath, Holmes!"

"Ow! I'm not one of your juvenile rugby friends you know."

"No, you're my juvenile solving-crime friend, and don't whine, you probably went to boarding school."

"Aah, that's nice!" he sighed involuntarily as he slid into the water. "You might actually be right that this was a good idea." He dunked his head under the surface, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. I tossed him another towel as he emerged.

"Wrap this around your head. Conserve that heat. Tea, coffee or hot chocolate?"

"Chocolate, please. May as well add to my girly air of decadence."

"An ordinary warm bath when you're unhealthily cold's hardly girly. I could've insisted on bubbles – you really do stink, you know."

"Yes, you did mention. Got any Matey? That was _de rigeur _the last time I used bubble bath."

I started to giggle. "How have you not deleted that? That's as 80's as white dog poo, and about as relevant."

He was grinning happily. "I used to like making myself a foamy white beard. It must have sparked off my interest in disguises, so I somehow misfiled it under 'useful'. Anyway, it seems deletion of anything pre-fifth birthday is more difficult – primitive CPU, I suppose." He disappeared underwater again, and I wandered off, still chuckling, to the kitchen.

As I filled the kettle, I used my own little mental filing system to store this rare nugget of Sherlock's past. He'd always been cagey about it; it was partly why Moriarty's final scheme had been so effective. Must be the rapid changes in temperature making him so loquacious; whatever the cause, I relished knowing a little more about the child that maketh the man, especially when he revealed he had done something as ordinary and childish as make bubble-bath-beards.

I made an enormous mug of Cadbury's drinking chocolate for my icy friend, and a tea for me, then headed back to the bathroom. I found Sherlock with thick lather in his hair, and a flannel draped creatively to keep it out of his eyes. It was obviously his second shampooing; the residue of the first clouded the water. He took the chocolate with an appreciation he didn't often show for sustenance, and grimaced at me.

"I'm hoping leaving the shampoo in for a while will get rid of the smell."

"It's less offensive in here already."

"_Thanks._"

"You're welcome. Feeling warmer yet?"

He sipped at his drink, a lot of cat-like pleasure at the warm steam wafting up at him crossing his face.

"Getting there. It's highly unpleasant, being that cold."

"That would be your body warning you not to freeze to death."

He snorted into his mug. I gave up on the lecture, but popped two Paracetamol caplets out from their foil packet and handed them to him.

"Take these too. It's common to get a bit of an inflammatory response after hypothermia. So, this case all sounds very fascinating. How about you tell me about it at a sensible speed, without leaving out all the steps your super-computer brain passed through to solve it?"

He visibly preened at the compliment; sufficiently compensated not only to swallow the caplets without complaint, but to go through the "boring" process of explaining himself to mere mortals. As ever, I was more impressed once I'd had the explanation than I'd been when it all seemed like a magic trick. The logic's always so beautiful; simple yet elegant – it's what's always made those who know him best remain utterly loyal to him even when he's an obnoxious prick.

I topped up the bath with more hot water whilst he was still in mid-stream, and was satisfied he should be properly warmed up by the time he finished his narrative.

"Right. I'm going to make chorizo omelette and sautéed potatoes with runner beans. It'll be a culinary masterpiece, so you'd better come and eat some of it. Ready in fifteen minutes."

"Alright. I'll just shower off this water, and hopefully I'll be a bearable flatmate again."

"Unlikely, but you'll smell nice."

His laugh followed me out of the door.

He joined me downstairs just as I was taking the beans out of the microwave and tipping them onto the plates, clad in pyjamas, thick socks, and one of my biggest jumpers under his dressing gown.

"Hope you don't mind. It's warmer than anything I've got."

"Not at all. I'm amazed you even bothered to mention it. You never do with my laptop."

He grinned and padded to the cupboard to fetch the cutlery and ketchup, as well as drinks for us both. Sherlock is somebody who prefers actions to words, and I suppose his helpful behaviour was in lieu of a thank you.

After dinner, he began to look hot and sweaty, and started losing layers. He grumbled about not feeling well, I replied that this was the inflammatory response I had spoken about, and only what he could expect after his reckless behaviour, he pretended to sulk, and we watched a crap detective programme on the telly together, which he ruined the end of.

Normality restored.

At least until three days later. Five days later, I was scared in a way I hadn't been since I stared up at a small figure on the roof of Barts' Hospital.

-oOo-

_Before you leave, does anyone recognise this photo of Sherlock and John (fill in the spaces on the web address)?_

http :/ www . digitalspy. co. uk / ustv / s129 / sherlock/news/a360768/elementary-cbs-develops-modern-day-sherlock-holmes-pilot. html

_I can't picture having seen it in any other episode. It looks like they're standing in an… empty house, doesn't it? Or maybe it's really obviously from an episode that's already been on and I just can't remember it!_

_-oOo-_

_I felt I needed to get the boys back to normal life after all the heartache of Reichenbach! We've had plenty of fics about linen trucks, lines of sight, screaming little girls, cyclists, squash balls, pulses, Irregulars, masks, dummies or dead bodies (nah! You can see his arms flailing!), Molly's secret role, Mycroft's secret role, Sherlock's out of character moment, John in varying stages of distress and so on, and yet I still can't decide which clues are red herrings and which aren't!_

_(If you want my feelings though, I'd subscribe to a variant of the soft landing and pulse blocking theory. I'm fairly certain Moriarty is dead, as Moffat and Gatiss usually do stay true to the theme of the original stories, and I sincerely hope they'll make both Holmes boys look less puppety and more proactive in the new season – at present, I don't see much sign of the cunning that the original Holmes painstakingly dismantled Moriarty's network with, and Mycroft seems a buffoon! Ah well, won't know for sure until series 3. Roll on, the Empty House!)_

_Anyway, the one thing that seems certain is that Sherlock will come back to John eventually, and will continue being Sherlocky and getting himself into trouble. Next chapter will look at how much trouble…. you see, I want my normal Sherlock fics back! If you do too, spur me on with a review please!_

_Thanks so much to those of you who've sent me such lovely reviews already! You cheered me up, so I'm glad I was able to perform the same service for some of you._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Breathing is Not Boring**

"John!"

Someone was shaking me, but I was so comfortable, so beautifully asleep, that I burrowed deeper into the duvet and tried to ignore it.

"_John!"_

Heigh-ho. They weren't giving up, whoever they were. Instincts from years of being on call, the Army, and Sherlock started to kick in, and I snapped myself out of sleep sharpish.

There was only the faint orange glow from the streets lights outside, but my flatmate's distinctive silhouette was unmistakable. I groaned.

"Whaddya want? This'd better be good."

"I don't think…. I'm very well."

Instantly fully alert, I clicked on my bedside lamp, sitting up and squinting against the light to take a good look at my patient. What I saw had me immediately swinging my legs out of bed, and pushing him down onto it.

He was grey and clammy, and panting with exertion. As he sat down, he braced his arms against the bed, and his sternocleidomastoid tendons stuck out in sharp relief from his neck – he was straining every accessory muscle to breathe. Most worrying of all, he looked frightened for a moment before he smoothed the expression off his face.

"Sherlock, you look terrible! What's wrong?"

"Cough… short of… breath…. chest hurts…. a lot… when I breathe in. Cold… but febrile…"

_Inability to speak in full sentences, _the automatic diagnostic response in my brain added to my initial observations.

"You idiot! Why didn't you say something before? Why let yourself get into this state?"

I immediately regretted my words, as my friend looked genuinely upset, whereas usually he'd shake off my fussing. I hadn't spoken harshly, and was already rummaging in my bag for my stethoscope, manometer and thermometer – he was being uncharacteristically sensitive. Another cause for concern.

"It… came on so… quickly", he gasped. "Sorry. Not ill very… often, just a bad cough…. bit unwell…. thought I was… making a fuss…just had… man flu,… earlier… in the day…"

"OK, I'm sorry. Stop speaking for now, it's obviously hard work." I put a hand on his shoulder. The back of his T-shirt was stuck to him with sweat. I was trying to speak calmly, but my nerves were all clanging with alarm as each new fact slotted into place. _Respiratory rate significantly elevated at almost forty. Tachycardic; heart rate of one-thirty, pulse thready. Sentence construction possibly indicating mild confusion. Unequal chest movement, right more than left. Dullness to percussion both lung bases and entire right lung field. Lungs_ _sound awful; crackling right base, but far more ominous with a near-silence on left. Blood pressure low at 90/55, temperature 40.3__o__C. Impression: life threatening pneumonia or adult respiratory distress syndrome._

"We're going to need to get you to hospital, Sherlock. I can't manage this here."

I spoke quietly and firmly, expecting angry resistance. Instead, he just nodded, then looked up, his face suddenly anguished.

"Took me… half an hour… to get to your… room. Don't think… can manage stairs."

I sat down next to him, hand again on his shoulder, careful to avoid restricting the desperately laboured breaths.

"Right, mate. I'm calling an ambulance. Just remember, you need to know the right buzz-words to get priority with their protocols. A little exaggeration is can be useful." I wasn't about to exaggerate as I dialled 999 on my mobile, but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

"Hello. Ambulance please. My flatmate has severe chest pain and life threatening breathing difficulties. I'm a doctor, and I believe him to be in a peri-arrest situation… Yes, that's right… Yes, he is breathing, but only just… Yes, fast and thready… Yes, 221B Baker Street… Sherlock Holmes… Yes, that's right… Good, thank you…. Yes, I have… Yes… Yes, I do know… I'm going to need to get off the phone now… thank you."

Sherlock appeared to be centring all his usually powerful concentration on breathing, a focussed frown on his face, but he looked up at me as I hung up.

"You weren't… exaggerating." I suppose it was ridiculous of me to expect to get even a half-suffocating Sherlock Holmes to swallow the smallest of deceptions. Poor sod; sometimes I'd hate to have his brain. Not often, but sometimes. I rubbed my hand gently over his shoulder blade.

"You'll be alright. The ambulance won't be long, we'll get you to hospital, and get you fixed up with some oxygen, fluids and antibiotics."

He nodded, then went back to fixing on his breathing.

He seemed a little easier when the paramedics strapped an oxygen mask to his face, but they still had to carry him down the stairs. He was trying to appear unconcerned, but his knuckles were white as he clutched the mask to his face.

He started muttering to me in the ambulance, but his words were muffled beneath the oxygen mask. I leaned closer.

"Lestrade… tell him… was Lewis… killed Trafford… animal smuggling…"

I winced inwardly. "Sherlock", I said, gently, "It's OK. He already knows. The pneumonia's making you a bit forgetful."

There was a pause as he absorbed these words, then his eyes widened, the whites a thin rim around his irises, tears springing to the corners. He was petrified.

"It's temporary, Sherlock, it's OK. Your brain's fine, it's just your bloody transport jamming its signals." I grabbed his hand, and he squeezed hard.

We pulled in at A&E, and we were immediately wheeled round to Majors. It was surreal, suddenly being on the other side of the bed, so to speak. I found myself appraising their response; severe chest pain and respiratory distress, triage code red, to see a doctor within ten minutes.

They were there within the first minute; thankfully there weren't too many punters at 4am. One of the few times I've been thankful for Sherlock's semi-nocturnal habits. They were cannulating him within another two minutes, and the mobile Xray was being swung around as they were finishing. I watched approvingly as the IV bag was set up, as the antibiotics were prescribed, drawn up and given. Very slick. Couldn't have done better myself.

An absurdly youthful and rather posh SHO named Josh took the history, mostly from me. I answered concisely, mechanically, in our own language. Sherlock understood most medical jargon. He wouldn't want to be patronised.

It was as I was explaining that no, Sherlock had no immune deficiencies that I was aware of, and I simultaneously noticed them pulling up his Xray on the computer and saw the white-out of his left lung, the patchy shadows across the right, that it clicked.

"Oh, Jesus. Legionnaire's. I bet it's Legionnaire's. You smart-arse, you couldn't get something so mundane as a _normal_ pneumonia, could you?" Sherlock actually seemed to perk up in interest, then give a huff of amusement. "He spent most of Tuesday hiding in an air conditioning shaft." I looked back at Josh. He was regarding me as if I was slightly mad. I compounded it by giving a nervous giggle, then felt I really ought to explain myself. "He's a detective. He was on a case."

The young doctor's face suddenly lit up, and he clicked his fingers in excitement. "Oh, wow! I knew I'd heard the name! You're the one with the hat, who came back from the dead!" There was an awkward silence.

"Pleased… to meet you", muttered Sherlock from behind his mask, and even in his current state, the irony was plain. Abashed, Josh finished his history with punctilious professionalism, then left.

Sherlock was talking again. "Severe… pneumonia…_Legionella Pneum…ophila_… outbreak in Barrow… In-Furness… in 2002... criminal case… dull, though… gave Streisand idea… often acquired… from dirty water… or air conditioning…"

"No, not _often_, Sherlock. It's very rare. That's why it'll be so typical of you if that's what it turns out to be." I wasn't sure how my friend contrived to look smug with an oxygen mask obscuring much of his face. I rolled my eyes out of habit, then glanced at the small crowd of doctors and nurses conferring around the computer, plainly trying not to glance over at us.

"Look at them, Sherlock. They're in a flap, 'cause I mentioned Legionnaire's. What did I tell you about buzz words? They'll be getting all worked up, calling Public Health, Infection Control, the Night Nurse Practitioner, the Bed Manager, all before they've determined that you haven't just got a common _Strep_. Hospitals, huh? Mind you, it'll probably guarantee you a private cubical. Good job too, I wouldn't inflict you on the rest of the ward, exotic bacteria or not."

_Scornful_. He was projecting scornful from behind the mask now. How did he do it?

"They've already… decided… I need… a private room… Now they're… worked up… about my being… a celebrity… The fat one's… wondering… whether it's… appropriate… to ask for an… _autograph_." They caught us looking, and two of the nurses blushed.

It wasn't long before the medical registrar arrived, and much to my relief, he was one of my old house officers. Sherlock was on his way to the respiratory ward and Simon was quite happy to convince the nurses (his offensively good looks no doubt playing a part) to turn a blind eye to my staying a while despite it not being visiting hours.

I stayed whilst Sherlock was connected to a heart and oxygen monitor. He looked better. I was relieved to see his heart rate had come down after the fluids, and his sats were holding. When he fell asleep, I left to get some things from home, and grab forty winks myself.

I was woken by my mobile. It was still dark as I fumbled for it; quarter past seven. A serious voice greeted me as I answered it.

_"Dr Watson? This is Beth, the sister on Ward 6B. I'm calling about Sherlock – I think you need to come in."_

"Wha-what is it? What's wrong?" I mumbled, trying to blink the cloying remnants of sleep away, my stomach clenching with unease.

_"He's suddenly become more short of breath. We're going to trial him on BiPAP – that's a machine with a tight mask that blows air into his lungs and makes breathing easier..."_

I was already hopping around the room getting dressed with my phone clamped to my ear. I got both feet into one leg of my jeans, and fell over onto the bed. "I'm a doctor, I know about BiPAP – how bad is he? You said _trialling_." The slight silence down the line was telling. I'd spent too long around Sherlock.

"The ITU outreach team are coming to see him. He may well need ventilating."

"I'm on my way. Thank you."

It probably took me longer to leave the house than it should have done, because my sleep deprived panicking left me forgetting things and flapping backwards and forwards in indecision as I tried to get ready, but I was legging it down the stairs and banging on Mrs Hudson's door within five minutes. She emerged in her nightie, and I gave her a garbled explanation, before rushing out of the door to get my minicab. Then running back in to get my wallet.

I was panting almost as badly as Sherlock had been by the time I got to the ward. _This is ridiculous_, I chastised myself. _You've seen sick people before, and you don't usually flap around the place like a headless chicken._

A nurse lead me to a different cubical; this one a respiratory high dependency space, then left me at the door, saying she was going to ring the doctor. I opened the door, then almost reeled back out again.

Sherlock was sitting propped up on his pillows, his bare chest heaving. His posture was stiff and unnatural; he looked as if every fibre of his being was being pushed into breathing for him.

He looked up as I came into the room, and his eyes were terrified.

"Oh, Sherlock. You'll be OK."

He gave a little shake of his head, and groped for my hand.

"You will be. If need be, if the worst comes to the worst, they can breathe for you." He still looked wild. I took his hand in mine, and he tightened his grip.

I sat, my own blood pressure rising, as I watched his struggles becoming worse. It was probably only fifteen minutes or so, but it felt ages.

Sherlock was deteriorating really rapidly. His chest fluttered like a trapped bird's - there was a desperate, jerky quality to it. His head lolled sideways, the inflatable BiPAP mask strapped tightly to his face with uncompromising black Velcro. His eyes were closed. He was dead white, and he shone with sweat, his black hair hanging limply soaked over his forehead.

A strange ringing filled my ears as I squeezed his hand again. He opened his eyes at the pressure, and tried to roll them at me; their edges crinkled at my shaky laugh. He intertwined his fingers with mine, then his eyes drifted shut once more. He was the picture of abject exhaustion. Even the fear seemed to be leaving him.

I looked around frantically for the return of the nurse. There was no way Sherlock was going to cope much longer; the hospital cleaner could have told that. I was about to ring the emergency bell when I saw their shadows through the door and a doctor in scrubs and the nurse entered the room.

I knew that he took one look at Sherlock and his decision was made.

"Hello, Mr Holmes." Sherlock's eyes half drifted open, then closed again. The doctor nodded at me too. "Are you a relative?"

"His partner", I answered immediately, prioritising ensuring I was kept informed over ruining my future heterosexual sex life. "John Watson".

"I'm Raj Pierson; I'm the ITU registrar. I understand you're a medic too, Dr Watson?"

"Yes. And it's John, please", I replied tightly, feeling too wound up to offer much else.

"Raj. Then I assume you can see Mr Holmes is becoming exhausted?" I nodded, and he nodded back, then gently shook Sherlock by the shoulder.

"Mr Holmes?"

"He prefers Sherlock", I croaked.

"Sherlock?"

The tired grey eyes opened again. It took them a moment to focus on the doctor in front of him, the most certain sign he was failing yet.

"Sherlock, can you give me a nod if you can understand me?"

The smallest incline of the head. The eyes were closing again.

"Sherlock." Another little shake, and they reopened. "Sherlock, my name's Raj, Dr Pierson. You're pretty unwell at the moment. You need some help with your breathing. We need to take you to intensive care, and look after that for you. We'll need to give you a gentle anaesthetic, then we can take over your breathing for you. When you wake up, you'll be on the way to recovery."

Sherlock turned to me, frantic again.

"It's alright", I said gently, my thumb rubbing over his hand. "It's the right thing to do, it won't hurt." A small nod, then the eyes closed, and stayed shut.

A porter materialised, and we wheeled down the corridor together to ITU. I hung back when we arrived. I found myself standing like a spare part. I heard Raj telling the team on ITU that I was a doctor. I wished he hadn't, as they all seemed to assume that, as one of the initiated, I was happy to glean what was going on myself, and my brain just seemed to be buzzing with white noise. They didn't even ask me to leave the room as they gave him the sedating and paralysing drugs, then tipped his head back and cranked back his jaw with the laryngoscope before poking the tube down into his airway. I'd seen it done a thousand times, I'd even done it myself more than a few times out of necessity, but that didn't mean I wanted to see it now. I found myself fighting back tears as they taped the tube to his face.

They really had forgotten I was there. The ITU consultant who was inflating his chest with a hand held bag was commenting on their stiffness.

"Almost a two-handed job here. Lungs are awful."

I focussed on a loose ceiling tile, and breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, in through nose, out through mouth again.

"We'll need to get physio in, see if we can't get some of this crap off his chest. Needs a good pummelling."

I could see pipes behind where the ceiling tile was hanging down. It was becoming blurry.

Then, one of the junior doctors was asking me if I was alright, and I was shaking my head, unable to find the words.

"This is Sherlock's partner", she explained, pointedly.

The outspoken consultant turned around, looking a bit apologetic.

"Very sorry, sir. John, is it? Why don't you grab a cuppa, John, and we'll be through to talk when he's a bit more ship-shape?"

A middle aged nurse was leading me off. I couldn't deduce anything about her, except that she was kind, and treating me like a normal relative, thank God, bustling me off and sitting me on the sofa in the relative's room and promising to get me a drink. I wasn't even aware she'd gone before she reappeared with a cup of tea. It wasn't bad either. I think she was apologising for letting me see my "partner" being mauled about, medically speaking, but I couldn't really take it in. I just smiled weakly, and made polite neutral noises.

I was left alone again, and I drank my tea, then dozed off. When I came to, it was with a jolt. I'd been dreaming I was falling from the roof of the hospital.

Not long afterwards, the consultant came back, with the nurse who'd be looking after Sherlock. He explained that he was very ill, that he had adult respiratory distress syndrome, that he was now connected to the ventilator, and that they'd need to monitor his response. Too early to say about prognosis, etc etc, heard it all before, said it a thousand times myself.

I followed them back into ITU. My friend was now propped half upright. His chest was rising and falling with the steady rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. Otherwise, he was still. I had to remind myself that this time, he wasn't dead – he'd been given paralysing drugs. Of course, that was the same as the last time... but this time, it wasn't all an act.

His eyes were held shut with little squares of gel. Someone has coated his lips with Vaseline, and moved his hair off his forehead. I noticed these details slightly before the medical ones.

I looked at the monitors. Oxygen saturations in the high 80's/low 90's – acceptable, but not normal. Arterial blood pressure trace – blood pressure still on the low side. Heart rate elevated – only to be expected. End expiratory carbon dioxide a little high – less good. Saturations drifting down a bit – starting to alarm, in fact. Drifting back up again.

I turned to the ventilator. My eyebrows raised at the pressure settings. High. Chest not moving enough for those sorts of pressures. Needing high pressures to push against his poor stiff lungs. I wished I didn't know that.

I took Sherlock's hand, feeling a little silly, but defiant. I moved his ID bracelet back; it was digging into the base of his hand, and had left a red mark. I rubbed the red mark until it faded.

The nurse came over to take a blood sample from Sherlock's line. She crossed the room to run it through the blood gas analyser. I watched her face carefully. She frowned at the print-out. Definitely not good. I tried to make myself not ask, told myself that I couldn't have it both ways; wanting to be the sheltered relative on the one hand and an involved medical professional on the other. But it was like an itch, nagging at me, and I found myself inching around trying to read the chart on the end of his bed. In the end, I gave up, stood up, and looked. Then I sat down again and ran my hand over my face, feeling a chill crawling up my spine. His blood gases were awful.

The nurse returned with the SHO, who turned up the settings on his ventilator, and I sat there and worried about the long term damage such high pressures must be doing to his lungs. When I bit my nails enough that I realised I was bleeding, I thought I'd really have to get out for a moment. It was then I realised something peculiar; I felt suddenly conscious that I hadn't called Mycroft, and then wondered why on earth he wasn't already here, getting underfoot and trying to issue instructions. I then remembered the last time Sherlock had been seriously unwell and in hospital - his usually urbane brother had been strangely intimidated. I therefore wasn't surprised to hear my name called as I walked past the waiting room.

Mycroft was rising to his feet, a small frown of worry creasing his forehead.

"Mycroft, sorry. I was going to ring you. What are you doing out here?"

He studied his well-polished brogues, and muttered something about "didn't want to get in the way".

I suppose it must be a reaction to being accustomed to controlling everything; as soon as something is out of control it becomes frightening. He wasn't even assertive enough to go into ITU on his own, and I suddenly had the oddest feeling that he was waiting for instruction from me.

"Come on," I said. "I need a coffee; there's a decent machine in the ground floor canteen; let's go and get something, and I'll update you. We can go and see him afterwards."

"Allright, John", he replied meekly.

As we sat at the formica tables on our plastic chairs, Mycroft stirring three sugars into his coffee and absently crumbling a blueberry muffin, I told him what was going on. He was watching me as I talked, not the way an ordinary person would, but the way only a Holmes could.

"You're worried." He said, as I finished. "You don't think it's just a pneumonia."

I sighed. It was pointless even trying to hide anything. Apparently my face just wouldn't allow it – it was why I'd had to witness Sherlock's "death", and now why I had to voice my inner concerns.

"I think it's serious, Mycroft. The ventilator works by delivering a positive pressure to inflate his lungs. It's on really high settings, meaning that it's difficult to do, and it can cause pressure trauma – barotrauma – to his lungs – they're usually a low pressure system, and they shift air in and out by negative pressure. There're giving him loads of supplementary oxygen too, and yet it's still not getting into his blood properly."

Mycroft nodded, the crease on his brow unchanged. "Is there anything else they can do?"

I sighed again. "I'm not sure. I know some places use a different ventilation technique, but I'm not sure if they do it here…" Mycroft seemed to straighten up, a martial light in his eyes at the thought of _doing_ something, "…and if they're not used to using it, it wouldn't be safe, and he's not well enough to move." Mycroft sagged again.

"Why do you think he's so ill?"

"It could just be bad luck. I wondered if he's got Legionairre's, though – he was hiding in an air conditioning…" I stopped. My companion had turned very pale.

"I've had to deal with aspects of the outbreaks. It's very nasty, isn't it?"

"All pneumonia as bad as this is nasty, Mycroft", I said, gently. "It isn't special. He's young and fit though. The odds are well in his favour."

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, then I suggested we return to the ITU. I felt instantly nervous when I saw three doctors and two nurses standing around his bed, and another nurse bringing over a machine that I vaguely recognised as an oscillation ventilator, that I was only really used to seeing used as last ditch rescue therapy in burn victims. I heard an intake of breath from Mycroft, who must have recognised my change in posture.

One of the doctors was the consultant I had already met. He looked up at our entrance.

"John", he greeted. His face was serious. He looked questioningly at Mycroft.

"Um, this is Mycroft. Sherlock's brother." The consultant's hairy eyebrow twitched at the name (he wasn't good at dissembling either). He recollected himself, and held out a hand.

"I'm afraid Sherlock is deteriorating, and not coping with the ventilator. We need to try a different strategy – this machine inflates his lungs more fully and wobbles them, like a panting dog, to allow a better surface area for oxygen exchange. It's gentler than the old-fashioned type, but it doesn't allow him to do anything for himself…."

The explanation wore on, but I found my attention wandering. Tendrils of fear were starting to poke their way in everywhere, and I was suddenly very conscious of my bladder. I excused myself, and went out to use the gents.

It was a bit of a long walk, and when I returned, I felt my legs turning to water. A sheet-white Mycroft was shaking in the corner, a motherly nurse virtually holding him up and talking earnestly to him. Sherlock's bed was alive with activity – all the monitors were alarming, and the young SHO was holding up a bag of fluid, squeezing it in. Nurses were hurridly drawing up drugs and readying infusion pumps. I heard random words; "hypotensive", "Dopamine", "adrenaline" and "noradrenaline" – enough to realise my friend was in severe shock. This was the point at which, if I was helping with the resuscitation myself, I'd be meeting my colleagues' eyes and sadly shaking my head.

Feeling sick with dread, I went to stand by Mycroft. We didn't speak, just stood and suffered together.

After a while, the monitors calmed down. I watched the blood pressure start to rise on the machines, and breathed a silent thanks that he was responding. At least for now.

They came and explained. I was a little relieved when they reminded me that inflating the lungs with the new ventilator could compress the veins returning to the heart, and cause the blood pressure to crash. At least there was an obvious cause.

Mycroft and I stood by the form in the bed, still except for where his chest jerked with the ventilator, going at a rate of six cycles per second. I half-hysterically wondered if he'd start wobbling towards the edge of the bed, like a mobile phone on the vibrate setting. It didn't look comfortable – I was glad he was unconscious. His eyelashes looked very black beneath the gel.

I don't think Mycroft could stand it for long – watching, without having the option of controlling or manipulating. He reached out and touched his brother's shoulder briefly. He then set his jaw, said "Please do keep me informed, John", in an approximation of his normal voice, and left the unit without looking back.

I settled in for a long wait.

The next few days were some of the most hellish I can remember, except for the obvious. Sherlock seemed to get worse by degrees. He was in septic shock. He required enormous amounts of fluid. His kidneys started to fail. I stayed by his bed for several hours each day, but came home during the nights - I remembered how exasperating and oppressive "bedside vigil" relatives could be to the staff, and I didn't want to distract them, although I hated leaving Sherlock and coming back to the echoingly empty flat. It felt empty even with the steady procession of well meaning visitors – Lestrade, Molly, Stan, Sally, Sarah. I could cope with Mrs Hudson, because she was as worried as I was. She had come to see Sherlock with me, and she'd fussed around him, talking the way she would if he had a bad cold. It was sort of reassuring.

On the third day, it was confirmed that _Legionella Pneumophila_ was growing in his sputum. I had to laugh, bitterly. Of course. He'd be pleased that it was the outlandish bug after all. If he woke up.

By the fifth day of his illness, I was starting to feel numb. Sherlock wasn't recognisable. Lestrade had come in to visit him, and had seemed unable to speak at the sight. He was incredibly puffy, litres and litres of fluid just sitting where they had leaked into his soft tissues. His skin stretched tight and was oozing, and they'd coated him with soft paraffin to prevent him loosing too much fluid. A slimy crust caked his mouth, from where the mucus reaccumulated every time they suctioned it. He was covered in bruises from old cannulae and failed attempts (on one occasion, I had watched the poor SHO try seven times to site a line, and had eventually asked if I could try myself. I'd succeeded on the fourth attempt). There were tubes and wires everywhere – a chest drain, an abdominal drain, electrodes, a catheter, the breathing tube, a feeding tube, his central line, his arterial line. And he remained so still, apart from the disturbing oscillation of his chest. It just wasn't Sherlock.

Then things started to stabilise. I tried to refuse to hope. There was no improvement yet, but at least things were static.

Slowly, slowly, he began to improve. He was peeing properly, at least, sign that his kidneys were improving, and that he could start to get rid of some of the fluid that was trying to drown him from within. I took some photos with my phone, as I'm sure he'd want to see, and I'd want to tease him. Michelin Man. Mr Stay Puffed – God, how I ached for things to be normal again.

Off the blood pressure maintaining medication. Off the oscillator and back on to the normal ventilator. Off the paralysis; just on sedation now. Off the diuretics, as he was peeing well enough on his own. Off the antibiotics, as he was just having to mop up the damage his own immune system had caused now.

"I can see your cheekbones again", I told him, on day ten. His eyes opened just a crack at the sound of my voice, and I smiled at him.

By day twelve, I was no longer worried. The ventilator was back on minimal settings, and his sedation was very light. He was responding slightly to his surroundings. I stayed for his tube being taken out. I'd seen him have one removed before, and remembered the look of panic. This time, it was less dramatic, and suddenly he was coughing fitfully, then looking over to me. He was nervous – took a few breaths on his own, then smiled.

"Breathing… no longer boring", he croaked, barely audible. He then immediately fell asleep.

The next day, he was managing to alternate between grumbling at the residual swelling in his hands ("I'm _fat_, John!"), complaining he was "utterly, intolerably bored", and sleeping.

The day after that, he wheedled and begged and charmed the nurse until she let him have his catheter out, and wear some "proper pyjamas". Later that day, it was sitting in a wheelchair. He tried to talk a re-crisped Mycroft into obtaining a portable oxygen cylinder, so he could leave the room, rather than be chained to the wall by his nasal cannulae. Mycroft refused adamantly, doubtless wanting to find an excuse to keep his incorrigible sibling safely in hospital. An experiment at managing without the oxygen had been aborted rather quickly and sheepishly. "Turns out turning blue is rather unpleasant, John."

The day after that, he had succeeded in talking Mycroft into obtaining his portable oxygen, and he had to be rescued when he ran out of energy trying propel his wheelchair down the corridor in search of stimulation.

"Is there any way we _can_ set up home oxygen for him?" I asked desperately, drinking in the canteen with Mycroft again after Sherlock had fallen back to sleep. I was exhausted – a convalescent Sherlock was more tiring then a whole nursery-full of sick toddlers. "It usually takes weeks to organise, but if there _is_ any way…"

The next day, I was being talked through the home oxygen system at Baker Street whilst Sherlock delightedly sawed on his violin. When the team left, I brought two cups of tea through, and flopped on the sofa next to him.

The next week was predictably hideous, but at least I felt he could leave the house for short periods now, and Sherlock was making a far faster recovery than I would have expected.

My friend was out of danger, and everything was getting back to normal, so I wasn't sure why I was feeling so miserable. It was as if the prolonged adrenaline exposure had drained me of all positivity. I had caught up on my sleep, but the slightest exertion left me exhausted. _I feel like a battery, trying to pour energy into a non-conductor _I thought, and then decided I must be going slightly mad. Perhaps it was the bad dreams: a swollen, bloated Sherlock, falling past me, whilst I kept trying to grab at him, Sherlock's chest getting bigger and bigger with the ventilator, until he started to split open, and I kept trying to fill the gaps with plasticine, blood pouring out of Sherlock's mouth as he coughed, his silver eyes wide with fright. If it wasn't tedious nightmares along these lines, it was just vague, unsettling dreams, of the running-but-not-going-anywhere, or crying-out-but-making-no-sound variety. I even dreamt I'd turned up to an maths exam that I hadn't prepared for, and then realised I was naked – but I didn't really think that was relevant to my current low mood.

I told myself it wasn't an uncommon reaction; having a depressive episode at the anti-climax following the severe illness of someone close. It was still frustrating though, especially as Sherlock was in one of his uncommunicative moods.

One morning, I had to get out. I hadn't booked himself any locum shifts, and I wasn't really sure what to do. I decided, on a very random impulse, to take myself off to London Zoo – I had a lifetime pass there after Sherlock and I had solved a rather interesting problem involving a Sumatran tiger and a giant anteater.

I felt immeasurably cheered up watching two gibbons scream at each other. One of them threw something, _probably shit_, at the other, then retired to a tree trunk to sulk. The other stalked off with offended dignity then started stuffing himself with food. However, my good humour was short-lived, as I began to feel assailed by the inescapable _sameness_ of the universe, then became annoyed with myself for indulging in such existentialist nonsense.

It was getting dark as I headed back to Baker Street. I hadn't left Sherlock alone for so long since his illness started. I hoped he was OK, _although_, I thought moodily_, in all probability, he hasn't even noticed I've gone out_.

I heard the shrill shouting before I even opened the front door. It went up a decibel level as I warily pushed it open, and was approaching fire-alarm status as I entered the flat.

It was Mrs Hudson, in full tirade. How impressive the usually diminutive lady could be was testified to by the fact that I was so distracted by it, I didn't even notice the strong smell of smoke at first. It was only as my mind began to filter phrases like _"MY BLOODY TABLE" and "MY BLOODY WINDOW" and "BLOODY GLASS AND SMOKE EVERYWHERE" _that I began to take in the finer details of my surroundings.

There was indeed glass and smoke everywhere. It appeared there had been a medium-sized explosion in the kitchen. Standing in the epicentre of the blast zone, with a soot-blackened face and singed eyebrows, was Sherlock. His head was hanging, as he was rocked by the wrath of his landlady, which was clearly directed at him. He wasn't wearing his oxygen cannulae – the tubing was instead attached to what had once been an intricate looking system of flasks and retorts, but was now mainly glass splinters that were liberally strewn over the kitchen. There was a small trickle of blood on his cheek, probably from the same source.

I was suddenly aware of a rushing in my ears, and a constricting of my vision, and I heard a tight, quiet voice, that I subsequently realised was my own, ask: "_What the _hell_ happened here_?"

Mrs Hudson fell quiet, then suddenly fluttered to the door, babbling that she was leaving us to it. Sherlock shuffled on the spot and looked awkward.

"I asked what happened, Sherlock. Why has our kitchen exploded?"

Sherlock was muttering something about "not used to such an unpredictable oxygen supply".

Suddenly, _I_ exploded, my bellow the sort that had sent hardened squaddies rushing for cover.

"_WHAT THE _HELL_ DID YOU THING YOU WERE DOING? Did you not realise that I've spent the last two weeks almost watching you _die_, and then you go and start messing around with a bloody smoky experiment when you've only just come off an effing _ventilator? _You idiot! You total, shitty, stupid, selfish, arseholing _lunatic!"

I realised there were tears on my face. Sherlock was staring at me in shock. He cringed as I suddenly stomped towards him, then stiffened as, instead of throwing a punch, I threw his arms around him instead, and started making noisy, embarrassing sobbing noises.

"Sorry, John."

"Shut up, you shitting _moron_."

I was just starting to calm down, and feel a little self-conscious, when I realised Sherlock's shoulders had begun to judder unevenly, and he was making sniffing sounds.

"Please don't leave, John."

It was my turn to freeze in shock now.

"What? I'm not going to leave. I'm just furious about this particular explosion, and a bit overwrought that you're not dead… no, that's not what I meant. About that you nearly died, but that now you're better… oh, God, you know what I mean."

"I was awake for a lot of it, you know. Quite tolerant to opiates, so the sedation was pretty light, although the paralysis was still there. It was like after – you know, after I _jumped_, but it went on for so much longer. And there were these constant beeps and bells, and people talking in the background, but I wasn't awake enough for it to make complete sense. It drove me mad. It was better when you were there, talking to me, 'cause I could anchor onto you, but the nights seemed to go on forever."

I was horrified. "Oh God, Sherlock, I'm sorry." I guided my trembling friend to the sofa, and sat him down, allowing the curly head to bury itself against my shoulder.

"It hurt, quite a bit, too. And it was so _humiliating _when I had to be, you know, washed and changed. I could _smell_ everything, _feel_ everything. I…I keep dreaming I'm back there, and this sitting around's driving me stir-crazy, but I'm _not_ going out with this oxygen set-up, to have all the proles staring at me. I just wanted to do something _normal_ – I'm sorry I blew up the kitchen." There was a pause, as we both digested this ludicrous statement, then the giggles started. They alternated with tears for a while, before we both began to calm down.

I eventually sat up straight and dried my eyes.

"I'm having nightmares again too. Bunk in with me again? We can poke each other if we think we're having a bad one. Um, that sounds really dodgy, but you know what I mean."

My flatmate brightened perceptibly.

"Yes please. It was rather useful after the hound case."

"You've managed a good twenty minutes without the oxygen now. How do you feel?"

Sherlock looked surprised. "Fine. I feel fine!"

I got up and fetched the oxygen sats probe. I attached it to Sherlock's finger, and we waited until it started beeping regularly.

"Ninety-three percent. Not too bad. Looks like you can do without for now. How about we wait another half hour, and if you're still feeling OK, we pop out and visit Lestrade? He had a couple of cases he wanted you to look over when you're well. After we organise a glazier and a cleaner. You're paying."

Sherlock looked ecstatic.

"Just one condition" I added. Sherlock glanced at me enquiringly. "Please hold off on climbing down musty ventilation shafts, or scrambling through fetid sewers, until your sats are back in the high nineties again and your cough's cleared up."

"John", said Sherlock, solemnly. "For you, I agree to never enter another dangerous looking disused or dirty passageway in my life, unless you give me the OK first."

"Well, that's good then".

As we both shrugged on our coats and walked downstairs thirty minutes later, Sherlock humming with his usual energy, I realised that I was grinning to myself. Yep, the knot of anxiety had vanished. Sherlock hailed a cab with typical imperious success, and we were heading to Scotland Yard.

The Game was back on.

-oOo-

_Thanks for all your reviews! Glad you liked a bit of well-past-Reichenbach fare. Please do continue – you all made little bits of my day…_

_ Hope this fulfilled the illness-through-stupidity request. Any more wishes? There is more on the way, but I remain open to ideas._


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